


Out With The Old, In With...

by d8rkmessngr



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Smut, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d8rkmessngr/pseuds/d8rkmessngr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the tim_don_a_thon. A new year is about to begin and Don is ready for some changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out With The Old, In With...

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This may be riddled with errors as this was a story I completely forgotten about and may/or may not have been betaed.

The harsh cough ripped through the cold air.

Don winced. He sighed and saw his chilled breath swirl in front of him like a chronic smoker's wreath. He'd quit smoking long ago when he realized it started seeping into his clothing. He reeked like the pickup bars he used to frequent. Used to. Before Timothy. He should mark milestones in his past with the letters BT, although the Catholic boy in Tim might have something to say about that.

Another cough cut into his thoughts and Don frowned. He twisted around and studied the dark head just visible over the top of their couch. He caught a glimpse of bare feet stretched out on the couch, the fleece throw too short to accommodate.

Don frowned.

"Want me to get the comforter from the bedroom?" he called out.

Another cough and a headshake vetoed the idea.

Don bit the inside of his cheek and went back to gathering up the Chinese takeout boxes of half eaten...well, everything since neither one of them had much of an appetite right now. He judged each container to see what was salvageable. He went by the Callahan scale though, not the Strachey scale, which was as long as it didn't smell rancid, it was good eats. Working as a PI didn't leave much income to be wasteful of anything.

Tim's determination on whether leftovers were still safe was that there should be no half bitten morsels or sprinkles of cold and clumpy complimentary rice mixed in it. Even then, the food was only good for another two days. If packed in a clean, airtight storage food container with the date penned in with a Sharpie, that is. When they were dating, Don had told Tim it was a waste of good food and he wasn't bothered if the occasional bad shrimp has him embracing the toilet. He's worked through food poisoning before.

For some reason, Tim didn't think it was as funny as Don did, so he never mentioned it again. Timothy got upset over the weirdest things.

Plucking an unfinished chunk of General Tso's chicken gleaming sticky in orange glaze out of one of the containers, Don popped it in his mouth, tasting it with the same concentration he'd seen Tim treat a glass of unfamiliar wine.

The chicken was cold but tasted like it should. Its spicy tang of chili peppers and citrus was a good heat in his mouth and warmed his throat going down. He felt a little guilty for it. He rubbed his hands together and wondered where the second hot water bottle was.

"Maybe a pair of those wool socks your mother sent you?" Don tried again and got another headshake for it.

"Don't eat my food," Tim rasped. Despite clogged sinuses, he could somehow still hear Don chewing. He coughed a few more times because even speaking a notch louder to be heard wrecked havoc on his chest cold. "Germs," he wheezed.

Don eyed Tim's steamed fish and vegetables still full in its rickshaw graffiti-ed carton. He made a face. No danger of that happening. He transferred it to a container, spread it out evenly and clamped the lid over it. He scratched out "12 31" on it before sliding it into the rattling fridge the landlord said he would get fixed. That bastard promised a lot of things would be fixed. Like the door. Like the mailbox.

Like the heater.

Still, moving into Tim's apartment was a step up for him. His landlord wouldn't have even bothered making such promises.

With everything sorted and stored, Don made another pot of hot water for Tim's tea and honey. It was the only thing that soothed Tim's throat. As Don dipped a teabag into Tim's mug, he realized this was the closest he ever came to domesticity in his life. He found himself grinning stupidly at the remaining stack of filled Tupperware on the table. When did it became important to have food put away and the dishes dried?

A wet cough answered his thoughts.

Brow furrowed, Don took a step towards the living room but again, Tim's hand worked its way out of the nest of blankets around him and frantically waved him off.

"Germs," Tim said miserably, his exhale an icy punctuation mark when he coughed again. His arm dropped back to his lap. He huddled deeper into the blankets.

The tinny sounds of Dick Clark squeaked out of the TV in front of him. Don was beginning to wish he stuck one of their rental tapes in the VCR instead because Tim was staring at the ongoings with a mix of anxiety and guilt. Anxiety because the fever kept climbing and Tim knew Don would carry through with his threat and haul him to the ER if his fever shot up to 104 again; guilt because there was a roasting chicken and an unopened bottle of champagne Don had shunted back into the fridge for another time they both had the night off.

"You know," Don pointed out to the tousled head, "I'm going to catch your non-existent germs anyway when we go to bed."

A hand weakly patted the general area of his chest and then the couch.

Don scowled.

Hell no. He was not letting his boyfriend sleep out in a living room that has been slowly chilling because some asshole was spending his holidays in a tropical island and couldn't be bothered to send someone over to fix the building's boiler.

Don gave Tim his tea and padded over to the bedroom. He could feel Tim's red-rimmed eyes tracking him as he entered the bedroom.

The large bed took up most of the space, yet Tim had still insisted on getting the secondhand bookcase to shelve Don's ratty paperback collection. It didn't matter the short bookcase was squeezed in between the bed and the wall by its side. Tim didn't care he needed to climb onto the bed to reach the shelves; he wanted Don to feel comfortable moving all his things in. So Don's dollar mystery novels mixed up with Tim's stiff hardcovers with their glossy dust jackets because Tim always took them off before reading. And Don caught him smiling weirdly at the mismatched mess on the bookcase; Tim even vehemently nixed his suggestion to sort them out into separate shelves.

But Don had to admit, he caught himself smiling at the books himself once. Okay, maybe twice.

Don shook his head. He could hear Tim wheezing in the other room. He fished out the Vicks VapoRub from the nightstand. Tim hated the smell but hey, Don didn't care what it smelled like. Tim slept better with it massaged deep into his chest muscles.

As Don rose to his feet—the tiny stand was only reachable with a few flexible twists across the bed to the side opposite the bookcase—he glanced at the bed. The rumpled bedspread irked Don. Not just because the Army had drummed into him the necessity of a bed tight at the corners, but because Tim would normally balk at walking away from a mess he made. To be fair though, his cold hit him hard yesterday. Nicely made beds and romantic dinners were the last things on his mind as he lay curled under the covers, shivering and aching.

Three years ago, Don would have walked away from the bed without a second glance. Not his mess, so not his problem; he already has enough problems to deal with, why the hell should he bother with anyone else's?

Tim didn't see it that way though; he didn't see a lot of things the way Don saw them, in fact. If it was Don's problem, it was his problem too and Tim took it with all the possessiveness of a territorial tomcat. And Don pitied anyone who told Tim it wasn't worth the trouble. It riled up Tim in a way that was both frightening and pretty damn hot.

The bedspread landed with a muffled thump when Don flipped it out, ironed away the lumps and hills until it was smooth over their bed. Of course, he needed to redo it when, in afterthought, he crawled over it to stretch a hand to the bookcase and grab the last book Tim was reading. He took off the dust jacket first, of course.

The comforter was crammed on the top shelf in the small closet. Pulling it out almost upset the delicate balance of boxes Tim had shoved in the back, things he insisted Don didn't have to throw away because there was no room. It was just a bunch of stupid photos of an awkwardly grinning, all knees and elbows, Don. He stood alone in some, the shitty house behind him or with a stiff limbed parent next to him in others. Don couldn't remember where most of them were taken and he didn't care if he never remembered. But Tim wanted to keep them along with the random memento Don foolishly kept back when he was younger, oblivious and positive he was straight. Don conceded to keeping them in a box; a compromise from the photo album Tim wanted to display the yellowing photos in. Don saw no point in keeping them, saw no point in showcasing the shell of a life that wanted nothing to do with Don and Don happy to do vice versa. He didn't like the stupid kid in the photos and told Tim that. Tim only said they were still Don and that was enough for him to want to keep them. All of them.

Don stared hard at the boxes. Did he really have that much stuff? He held the rolled up comforter to his chest. If they didn't have those boxes, there would be more room. Tim could probably stow away his things up there instead of stuffing them under the bed to shack up with the dust bunnies.

The muffled hacks in the living room lured him away from his thoughts. Don gave the closet one last look, the whole bedroom one last speculative glance before he came out.

Fever bright eyes watched him as he made his way to the couch. Tim shook his head, gulped because it probably made him dizzy and pressed back into his end of the couch when Don sat down.

"Don..." he protested weakly.

"Germs, I know," Don said as he shuffled until he could squeeze into what space Tim's long legs left him. He poked, playfully tweaked a big toe until Tim reluctantly swung his legs over the edge and sat up to make room for Don. Tim made a point to sit on one half of the couch, the half Don wasn't on and looking at Tim huddled miserably inches away might as well be another time zone. 

Don snickered when he unfurled the comforter like a fisherman's net and cast it over them both, stifling Tim's yelp under a thick layer of quilted down. He shuffled closer. 

Ever mindful of being contagious, Tim edged back and it took Don a few wiggles to chase down Tim, cornering him to the end of the sofa. He hooked an arm around Tim's shoulders and pulled him closer until their hips touched. 

"Just rest, honey," Don whispered. He rewound the layers and tucked them around Tim. He gently massaged the stiff neck until Tim relaxed and finally dropped his head on Don's right shoulder.

Tim's neck felt hot, a dry heat that lingered on Don's palm when he pulled his hand away. Don stroked Tim's head, dark hair matted with sweat. Even with all the blankets, Don could feel Tim trembling with the effort not to cough near Don. He slipped his hand under the blankets and Tim's shirts to rest on fever burning skin. Don rubbed up and down Tim's bowed spine. Tim pressed his face into the comforter and hacked so violently, a tear rolled down his cheek.

Don wiped the moisture trailing down Tim's jaw with his thumb. He uneasily stared out the window. The news had forecast possible snow later. It would be hard driving to the ER if it did.

"Don," Tim mumbled sleepily. "I'm all right."

Don sighed, discomforted both by the feeling of helplessness and the thrill in his gut whenever Tim answered a question he never voiced out loud.

"This wasn't how I wanted our second year together to start though," Tim mumbled. He watched listlessly as the cameras swept over the crowds in Times Square.

"Hey, a square meal and not freezing in my car photographing cheating husbands on New Year's Eve is a step up for me," Don remarked. He felt Tim snake an arm around his middle. Don took a deep breath, let his skin absorb the hand settling on his lower back like a favorite shirt. He ran a finger up and down Tim's arm.

"You shouldn't be here," Tim yawned, his eyes drooping as cameras lingered on jubilant and possibly drunk party goers.

Privately, Don agreed. He shouldn't be here with a man who dated his Tupperware, hoarded old photos and ogled mismatched books. Don should be in his crappy apartment or drunk and giving or receiving a blowjob at whatever bar that hadn't thrown him out yet. Either way, Don was usually alone on New Year's Eve. How did that life become a distant memory?

As always, Tim knew what Don was thinking even if no words were exchanged. He slipped the other palm over Don's stomach, his thumb smoothing small circles over his navel.

"I'm glad you're here though," Tim croaked. He leaned heavily on Don and sighed, sounding content. Don was slowly beginning to understand why. "Even if you get my germs."

Don blinked hard. The lights of New York City blurred and briefly, he thought the countdown and the fireworks had begun. But now, after a moment, his vision cleared to a clarity he's never had before.

"Let's get married," Don blurted out.

Tim jerked and it was kinda adorable to watch Tim wrestle with two fleece throws, a plaid afghan and a comforter and failing miserably.

"What?" Tim's head submerged in layers of blankets before coming up for air. "Wait, did you just—" His head popped out from the mound. "A little help here?"

"I don't know," Don teased. "This way, I have you where I want you. Now you have to say yes." His smirk faltered. "It is yes, right?"

"Of course it's yes!" The exasperation on Tim's face could easily be the opposite though as he tried one more time to wiggle free of the cocoon Don made. "But if you don't..." He sagged back into Donald.

"Still want my help?" Don grinned because hell, he wanted to grin, laugh, dance except poor Timmy looked more ready for a nap. He took pity—not that Tim's half-mast glare out of his enchilada of cotton and wool had anything to do with it—and tugged some of the blankets loose enough so he could wrap both arms around Tim and drag him almost halfway on his lap. 

"Let's get a house with working heat too," Don said, grinning down at Tim, whose flush couldn't be entirely blamed on his cold now.

"Oh...okay," Tim said faintly, looking a little dazed. He fidgeted against Don. "A house?"

"And a dog."

Tim blinked. He raised a hand to his forehead. "I think I'm getting delirious," he stammered. "A dog?"

"Or a cat," Don amended.

"No, no, a dog is fine—Wait, Don, are...wait..." Tim glowered at him. He tried to sit up higher but two days in bed made him a pushover—literally—and he flopped back in Don's lap when Don tugged at him.

"Donald!" Tim was laughing, coughing and trying to talk at the same time. "What's going on?"

It was hard to hug a boyfriend currently wrapped up like a burrito but Don gave it his best shot, laughing into the mound where Tim's shoulder was.

"I love you," Don murmured. He could feel Tim wiggling closer to coil arms around him. "I love you and I want to spend every New Year with you for as long as you'll have me."

A shaky hand carded through Don's hair.

"That's a pretty long time," breathed Tim. The shock faded from his eyes replaced with a new kind of fever. "We're really doing this?"

"If we're not, you're not getting out of these blankets," teased Don. Tim laughed, but it quickly turned to a series of coughing.

"Okay," Don whispered as he smoothed a hand over Tim's chest. "We can talk more about this later." Warmth bloomed in his chest at the agreeing glint in Tim's eyes. He pulled Tim back to him, close enough to feel Tim breathe in sync with him. And it felt so damn right. "Just rest. Look, they're starting the countdown."

The sparkling ball was beginning its descent on the TV, the crowd screaming louder as it goes down. Their peaks of joy screaming at the top of their lungs seem to be echoing what was hammering against Don's ribs like something that wanted to break free and throw itself into the throes of celebration. Don placed a careful kiss on Tim's finally cooling forehead.

"Donald," Tim mumbled in protest even as he rested his head on Don's shoulder, "I might give you something."

"I sure hope so, Timmy," he murmured as they both watched a new year begin together.

**Author's Note:**

> Goodness! I had forgotten I written this and came across this in my hard drive while looking for something else!
> 
> Feedback would be most welcome and much appreciated.
> 
> PS: Looking for a beta for this fandom as you can tell from the story above. Anyone interested?


End file.
